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Renjun always wakes up before his alarm.
He really doesn’t need an alarm to wake up anymore, but the sentiment is nice, comforting, and it’s good to have around just in case. He sometimes sits on his bed until the twinkling bells of his alarm rings through the room, quiet enough as to not disturb anyone. Today is one of those days.
It’s still dark out, and when Renjun pushes back the curtain, the rings quietly clattering against the metal bar, he makes out a few clouds drifting by, ink splotches against an inky sky. He squints, and notices a gazebo standing proudly amongst the palm trees. It reminds him of the couple he had seen the day before, sitting together under its sloping roof, hand-in-hand. Distantly, he wonders what that would feel like.
He pulls on a pair of flip-flops and grabs his key-card from where he had placed it on his nightstand. As he’s about to leave, he eyes his sketchpad, sitting on top of his luggage, beckoning to him. The graphite pencil lying beside it is sharpened, just as he had left it the day before. Before he can convince himself otherwise, he picks up the sketchpad and pencil, then slips out of the door. He doesn’t let go of the doorknob until he’s sure the door is back in place, and even then, he twists it back slowly, carefully.
A stone pathway winds through the hotel room corridors, and Renjun pads along the uneven trail, his worn-down flip-flops getting caught in the occasional crevice. The birds have begun to emerge, chirping a tune that only they know the name of. It’s a familiar song, nevertheless, and Renjun immerses himself in it as he lets his feet carry him to the same place he’s spent his mornings at ever since he had first arrived the week before.
There’s a strange sort of beauty to the inevitable. He knows where he’ll sit once he makes it to the sandy beach, knows that the sun will lessen the chilly breeze nipping at his exposed arms and legs, knows where to start his pencil on a blank piece of paper as he sketches the scene in front of him.
So when he reaches his spot, he simply sits, bringing his knees up to his chest, and waits. He’s always waiting, but he never really minds. Waiting is comfortable when you’re waiting for the inevitable. He waits, and he watches as the clouds drift across the sky, ink fading into a dusty charcoal.
“Don’t you get tired of waking up at ass o’clock in the morning just for a sunrise? They all look the same.”
Renjun doesn’t need to look behind him to know who it is. Who else would complain about waking up so early, only to sit next to him, close enough that their knees knock together and all Renjun can smell is lavender soap. Close enough that when their hands brush, the barest of touches, Renjun can call it an accident. If Renjun was any braver, he would let himself fall into the other boy’s embrace. But he’s always been a coward, toeing away from even the lowest of tides.
“Never, Jaem. They’re all different, and you know that.”
Jaemin huffs and grumbles out a, “yeah, I know.” A smile pulls at the corner of Renjun’s lips, but he’s careful not to let Jaemin see, instead keeping his gaze focused on the winter sun tinting the horizon. The waves ripple in greeting as the sunrise overtakes the sky, turning everything it touches a brilliant orange. Renjun smiles.
It’s normal, easy, even, to wake up at six a.m. to see such a sight. It’s what he’s always done, even back at home, where the sunrise is shrouded by skyscrapers. It’s everpresent, warm and welcoming, an almost-magnetic pull towards the new day. A day that may be rooted in certainty, but consists of more possibilities than he could ever imagine.
The sunrise doesn’t wait for him, but he never expects it to, just as the ocean never waits for one to escape its grasp before pulling them deep, deep under.
Jaemin drapes a towel around Renjun’s shoulders, and Renjun finally spares him a glance to see Jaemin swaddled in a towel of his own, bright red polka-dots a stark contrast to his blue hair. The hair dye had been an impulsive decision on Jaemin’s part, but Renjun can’t deny it suits him. Jaemin catches his eye and cocks a brow, and Renjun scoffs, turning back towards the sunrise in front of him.
“You’re not that interesting to look at, don’t worry.”
He doesn’t need to look over at Jaemin to know Jaemin’s feigning hurt, so he jabs Jaemin with an elbow. Jaemin lets out a yelp at that, but then he’s laughing, a light sound that drifts along the ocean breeze, and the sunrise becomes just a bit brighter.
He doesn’t know if Jaemin knows he’s lying. He doesn’t think he wants to know, either.
—
Renjun’s trailing behind Jaemin as Jaemin scours through the small gift shop at the edge of the resort. Jaemin wanted to pick something out since they were leaving in a few days. Back to towering office buildings and responsibilities Renjun wishes he didn’t have.
It’s always like this, aimlessly following Jaemin. It’s a bit embarrassing in a way, and he almost hates himself for it. He isn’t usually like this with other people.
Yet, he thinks he would follow Jaemin to the ends of the Earth anyways.
Jaemin hums, a song they were listening to earlier while they were getting ready for the day. Renjun doesn’t join in, but he knows every word. Occasionally, Jaemin checks behind himself as if to make sure he didn’t lose Renjun in the sea of clothing and discounted bottles of tequila. He doesn’t need to, but Renjun smiles in reassurance whenever he does.
Jaemin plucks something from the rack, a pair of tiny white shorts. He inspects it for a moment, then holds it out to Renjun. “What do you think?”
“I think it’s nice.” The words are slow, careful, and Renjun looks away when he notices his gaze has lingered on Jaemin for too long.
“Cool.” Jaemin eyes the shorts again before draping them over his arm.
Renjun fiddles with his bracelet, a little band of woven string. It’s blue, and it absently reminds him of Jaemin’s hair. “Anything else?”
“Do you want anything?” Jaemin asks, and Renjun freezes. His hands fall to his sides, and the bracelet suddenly burns against his skin.
You, Renjun’s mind only whispers, but it crescendos into a resounding echo, and Renjun almost lets it slip past his lips. You, you, you.
His mouth presses into a thin smile. “I’m alright, thanks.”
“Are you sure?” His eyes burn holes into Renjun, but Renjun refuses to look up at him.
He shakes his head and turns away. “I’ll be under our umbrella whenever you’re done.”
He doesn’t wait for Jaemin’s reply.
—
Renjun is settled on a towel, legs crossed and his sketchpad precariously balanced on a knee. One wrong move and it’ll tumble to the ground, his pencil skidding through his drawing in a long, dark line. He doesn’t mind the position, but the risk of ruin is never one he enjoys. He shifts to lean the sketchpad against both legs. It doesn’t make it any more comfortable, but now there’s less of a chance of it falling.
Jaemin had wandered off into the ocean a while ago, sunglasses and shoes cast aside. He swam in high school — Renjun had gone to every single meet — so he’d always loved the water. Since they arrived, Jaemin’s made sure to spend at least an hour or two in the ocean, as Renjun sketches at a safe distance on the shore.
Even then, Renjun often has to force himself to remain focused on the page in his lap, only ever allowing himself small glances.
For the scenery, he says. He tells himself that every time until he believes himself, so if Jaemin ever notices and asks him if Renjun was looking at him, the lie will roll off his tongue, almost impassively.
As he draws, he makes sure to keep his wrist lifted, or else he’ll smudge the graphite. He has to make sure to not put too much pressure as he sketches clouds, or else the lines will be too sharp. Years of practice has built up certainty, and it’s comfortable.
There’s a giggle, and Renjun can’t stop himself from glancing up at Jaemin. He’s crouched beside a little kid, helping the boy scoop up sand in his plastic bucket. The boy is directing him where to tip it upside-down on the sand, and Jaemin obliges. When the column of sand comes out perfectly intact, Jaemin holds up a hand, and the boy high-fives him.
Jaemin’s beaming, and Renjun can’t stop the corner of his lips from tugging up at the sight.
Renjun’s wrist jolts suddenly and his head snaps down to his lap to see if any damage has been done. He sighs, frowning at a stray line that he'd accidentally drawn on the top of his page, cutting into his sketched sun.
He erases it, harsh rubber against paper, before blowing the remnants onto the towel. It’s not as visible anymore, but it’s etched into the thin sheet. He runs the tip of a fingernail over the area, and when it gets caught in the dent created by the pencil, his frown deepens. Careless. He couldn’t afford to be careless.
“Renjun!”
Renjun glances up and tilts his head to the side in interest.
Jaemin extends a hand, eyes bright. “Come join me!” The water sloshes at his calves, and the tips of his shorts are already wet.
Renjun shakes his head. “You know I don’t like water.”
Jaemin’s smile twists into a more bittersweet one, but he nods in understanding. “It was worth a try, right?”
Renjun clutches his sketchpad just a bit tighter. “Yeah, sure.”
Truthfully, he isn’t scared of water. Water is just another part of nature. Unpredictable but predictable. Cold at first, but once you get used to it, it can be a source of warmth.
He glances down at the page in front of him, a sketched silhouette standing among the rolling waves, windswept hair and a loose shirt hanging off his shoulders. No, Renjun isn’t scared of water.
He’s just scared of drowning.
—
Some people say falling in love is like a tidal wave. It hits you, full-force, and you’re swept off your feet into this whirlwind of emotions. If it ever recedes, you’re left coughing and sputtering for air, but the water won’t ever quite leave your lungs. It’s powerful, overwhelming, even.
For Renjun, it was more like a sunrise. Gradual, comfortable, inevitable. Loving Jaemin was inevitable, and part of Renjun had always known he was in love with Jaemin.
It had dawned on him one day, when Jaemin was just sitting in the chair across from him in their apartment. He was laughing, head thrown back as his shoulders shook. The sun streamed through the windows behind him, basking him in a shimmering glow. Renjun’s breath hitched, unable to look away from the scene in front of him. Jaemin didn’t notice, of course he didn’t, too busy giggling at one of Donghyuck’s jokes, but in that moment, it felt as if Jaemin was the only one in the room.
He wanted to brush it off then, as another silly little crush, but deep down, he knew that wasn’t true. Because he’d felt like that for a while; the butterflies and adoration were feelings he was well-acquainted with. He just didn’t have a name for it until that day.
Love.
It isn’t strange to love Jaemin Na. Everyone has fallen in love with him at some point, for his boyish charm and flirty smiles. The type of smiles that Jaemin wears when he pretends to know more than he actually does, a facade that Renjun had broken through several years prior.
As Renjun looks out at the ocean, the sunrise peeking out from behind the clouds, his heart aches. It feels lonely, but Jaemin will meet him later. He always does, before the sunrise reaches its peak in the sky, painting the world in dripping gold.
It’s incredible, the way something so ordinary can mimic something so precious. Even if it’s just an illusion, even if it’s just for a moment. It’s special.
There are footsteps from behind him. It’s almost inaudible, but Renjun has always been so in-tune with every little thing that Jaemin does. He allows his shoulders to drop, any tension dissipating in an instant.
“Don’t know how you do this, Jun.”
Renjun doesn’t look behind him, instead waiting until Jaemin is seated next to him, just a hair’s breadth away from Renjun. He feels the ghost of Jaemin’s pinky against his, but then it’s gone.
“I’ll never get tired of it,” he says, finally. And he means it.
—
“You know, personally, I think the moon’s prettier than the sun,” Jaemin says. He’s lying down, head propped up by his hands.
“I guess.”
Truthfully, Renjun doesn’t like the moon very much. It’s lovely, its silver moonlight always a breathtaking sight, but it feels much too unpredictable. Because one day it’s there, hanging above the rest of the world, and then the next, it vanishes. It’ll return, it always does, but something about an empty night sky is unsettling to Renjun.
When he voices that to Jaemin, Jaemin doesn’t say anything. He looks over to check what had caused Jaemin’s sudden silence, and sees Jaemin watching him with an indecipherable expression. “But it’s predictable in its own way,” he finally says, voice soft. “Like sure, you have eclipses and stuff, but once you figure out the patterns, I don’t think it’s very different.”
“Have you?”
Jaemin shakes his head ruefully, and his eyes glitter in the sunlight. “Not yet, but I’m trying.” Jaemin smiles at him, and Renjun looks away.
The sun is high on the horizon, only a few clouds in sight. Renjun watches it as the sunrise whispers promises in his ears. He doesn’t listen to them. If he acknowledges those promises, then he’ll be forced to act on them. He thinks of scribbled-out drawings, of the half-finished ones that litter the pages of his sketchpad, and shakes his head. He can’t do that.
He listens to the sea instead, the steady lull of waves against the shore. Rhythmic, slow and steady. It’s a serene backdrop of sound as he watches bits of yellow mingle with azure in the sky.
He feels Jaemin’s gaze on him, but he doesn’t look at him, either.
When the resort begins to come to life, footsteps against stone, Jaemin pushes himself to his feet. He doesn’t leave right away, instead just standing there, waiting.
Renjun doesn’t want him to leave, but he doesn’t say so.
“I’ll be back in the room if you need me.”
He squeezes Renjun’s shoulder. If Jaemin’s hand lingers just a bit too long, he doesn’t say anything about it. He never does, but when Jaemin draws away, he always finds himself missing the warmth anyways.
—
When Renjun wakes up, Jaemin’s not there. His alarm has yet to ring, but he’s already up and out of bed, flip-flops shoved onto his feet and sweater pulled down to his fingertips. The sky is lighter, foretelling the beginning of the sunrise that he almost missed. The birds are already chirping a tune, and Renjun picks up his pace, his phone heavy in his pocket.
He spots Jaemin, curled up on the sand as he lets the first rays of the sunrise seep through his spread fingers. Renjun takes a step forward. His alarm rings.
Jaemin turns towards him, bathed in shades of yellow and orange. He smiles in greeting; he knows Renjun has seen him. Renjun’s heart stutters in chest, and he takes another hesitant step forward. The sand gives way under his shoes, and Renjun kicks off his flip-flops as the grains fill his soles.
When he reaches Jaemin, he sinks to the ground next to him. He’s still only looking at the sunrise. “It’s really beautiful,” he says quietly. He’s not expecting Jaemin to reply, but Jaemin does anyway.
“Really is.”
Jaemin’s hand brushes against his hand once, twice. Renjun doesn’t dare to look at him.
“Never thought I’d see the day you’re awake before me,” Renjun tries to joke, but it comes out strained. His heart has leapt into his throat, and it’s drumming against his skin.
“Some things change.” A pause. “You know, I’m always awake when you wake up.”
“Then why don’t you ever leave with me?”
Jaemin sighs, and it’s almost lost among the rolling waves, the chirping of the birds. It’s one of tiredness and defeat. “I wanted to wait.”
Renjun swallows, and his limbs suddenly feel heavy. “For what?”
Jaemin doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to.
Renjun buries his fingers in the sand as the sun disappears behind a bundle of clouds, dampening its shine. It’ll re-emerge again, and he knows that. Yet, the ocean looks so empty without much sunlight to reflect, lonely as it waits for the clouds to part. The water is creeping up the shore as the tide rises.
Renjun looks over at Jaemin, and lets his gaze linger. Jaemin’s still looking at him, and then, it dawns on him:
Jaemin’s never stopped looking at him. He’s just been waiting for Renjun to look back.
And Renjun finally understands.
The waiting game is treacherous one. Sometimes, if you wait, you’ll be rewarded for your patience. Your expectations are fulfilled, a grounding sort of certainty.
But other times, if you wait too long, the thing that once seemed inevitable might not be as certain as you thought.
He reaches out a tentative hand, and Jaemin doesn’t flinch away. He’s watching, waiting to see what Renjun is going to do, but for the first time, Renjun doesn’t know what he’s going to do.
His hand hovers for a second before he cups Jaemin’s cheek. Jaemin’s breath hitches, quiet enough that Renjun almost misses it, and the sun cuts through the clouds. It’s casting shadows across Jaemin’s face, and Renjun wants to trace every feature, understand how the world shaped someone as beautiful as Jaemin Na.
Some people say humans were carved from marble or stone. Others say humans were created in the stars.
As Renjun takes in every detail, his thumb gently drifting across Jaemin’s cheek and settling on the corner of Jaemin’s lips, he thinks that Jaemin was born from something else entirely.
He doesn’t dare to move farther, giving Jaemin a chance to break away. A chance to turn away, no words needed. And Renjun would continue to be the lonely boy that chases sunbeams and watches the sea from an arm’s length, too scared to dip his toes in.
But Jaemin doesn’t turn away. He instead exhales, soft and slow, and his breath ghosts over Renjun’s hand.
“Can I?” Renjun’s voice is just above a whisper, but Jaemin hears it.
Jaemin’s gaze flickers down to Renjun’s lips once, twice. And then, he’s surging forward.
If loving Jaemin feels like a sunrise, kissing Jaemin feels like the ocean. He starts out gentle, chaste kisses that barely brush Renjun’s lips, like ripples against a still sea. But then he becomes more insistent, a tongue prodding at the seam of Renjun’s lips, and Renjun’s quick to open for him, wrapping his arms around Jaemin. His back’s against the gritty sand, and it’s harsh against his thin sweater, but the uncomfortable sensation gives way once Jaemin’s hands tangle into his hair.
He feels like there’s a tidal wave overtaking him, and he’s going deep, deep under, until he can’t register anything but Jaemin. He’s sinking, barely able to come up in time for air, but he’s not scared, because even when he’s going under, Jaemin’s pulling him back up with each breathless moan and gasp he draws from Renjun’s parted lips.
It’s warm everywhere, from the palms splayed out under his sweater to the lips leaving open-mouthed kisses on his jaw. It’s all too much and not enough at the same time, and god, he would do anything for Jaemin Na.
Jaemin Na, who’s showered in rays of orange and gold, who holds Renjun’s heart in his hands, but is always so very careful not to break it. Renjun kisses him, risky and unrestrained, because he knows Jaemin won’t break his heart. Jaemin won't let him drown.
There’s the call of a seagull, loud and shrill, as the sleepy world begins to wake, tearing them out of their little bubble. He still feels like he’s underwater, his senses muddied, and has to blink to make sure he’s not dreaming. Jaemin’s cheeks are flushed and his hair’s a mess, and Renjun’s sure he’s in a similar state of disarray.
“Hi,” Jaemin whispers. His gaze flits across Renjun’s features as if drinking him in, and Renjun’s hands fly up to cover his face in embarrassment.
“Go look somewhere else,” Renjun demands, but he lets Jaemin tug his hands away anyways.
“You’re the prettiest thing here. Why would I?”
Renjun really wants to hit him for that because, first of all, that’s unbearably sappy, but then Jaemin’s swooping down and stealing another kiss and Renjun melts into it all the same.
When Jaemin finally pulls him to his feet, Renjun’s heart is pounding and grains of sand cling to his sweater and legs.
“Wasn’t expecting all of that,” Renjun says, and he laughs lightly. It’s a bit of a lie. After all, he knows Jaemin better than anyone else.
Jaemin shakes his head. “I don’t think you understand the things you do to me.”
Renjun looks out to the ocean. It’s almost high tide. “I think I do.”
“Is that so?” Underneath the teasing, there’s an air of surprise in Jaemin’s voice. Renjun smiles but doesn’t respond.
He tugs Jaemin forward by his wrist, and Jaemin stumbles towards him. Renjun’s feet sink into the sand, leaving footprints in his wake. They’ll be covered up in a few hours, buried under the tracks of families and children, but for now, they’re pressed into the ground, a reminder. Two sets of footprints, right next to each other.
They’re walking towards the sunrise, and it’s bright, almost unbearably so, but it feels like it’s whispering fulfilled promises in his ear. He loves you, he loves you.
Renjun listens. He listens, despite that in a way, he’s always known.
He looks out to the horizon, where the sky meets the sea, and idly, he thinks Jaemin was born from the ocean, emerging in a flourish of sea foam. Ethereal, captivating, aphroditic. Just as everyone fell to Aphrodite’s feet, it was inevitable for Renjun to fall to Jaemin’s.
But there’s beauty in that. There always is.
Jaemin stops at the edge, where the water laps at the shore. He’s looking at Renjun, waiting. Renjun takes a step forward, shallow waves splashing against his shins. He holds a hand out to Jaemin. “Aren’t you coming?”
Jaemin laughs, bowing his head for a moment before taking Renjun’s outstretched hand. “Always.”